


A Stark Suggestion

by incinerated



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:34:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7513640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incinerated/pseuds/incinerated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short scene a day or two after Jon's coronation. Sansa finds her old diaries, Jon asks about Lady, and a marriage is suggested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to Fanfiction so any comments are welcomed! Also sorry for the format, I'm new to HTML too

The Bolton men left her secret cache untouched. The small slit, blended masterfully with the tracery, was invisible to the naked eye. Not that the plunderers would have been satisfied with such a discovery; it held nothing of intrinsic value. Sansa opened the drawer and removed her diaries. They were all still there, the Stark sigil branded into their leather binding. Each book looked the same except one. It was made two weeks before she had first left Winterfell. She remembered how she had asked the leathersmith to intertwine the Stark Direwolf with the Baratheon Stag. How silly it looked now.  


She ran her fingers over the sigils. What foolish things did this stupid girl have to say? Opening it to a random page, she read:

_Joffrey must hate it here in dreary, cold Winterfell. I know I do. I can’t wait to see how the King’s Landing Sun shines on his golden hair, how it will shine on the heads of our golden haired children. Only six more days until we are on the King’s Road!_

“You idiot,” Sansa whispered to the written page.  
Another, older diary beckoned her. The inseam read: Lady Sansa Stark, Age: 11. She flipped it open.

_Arya saw Jon Snow without his tunic today. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if Arya wasn’t such a little brat but she told Robb that Snow was more musclelier than him. Mother overheard her and she all but demanded Jon Snow’s head. I thought he would finally be sent away for good. Father wouldn’t allow it. All Mother did was tell him for everyone to hear that he showed what his bastard blood was truly made of. I wonder if she would have tried harder if she knew that I had seen his bare chest too. ___

Sansa beamed at the passage. This was the thing she needed to reconnect with Jon, to establish a new intimacy between them. Ever since they began making preparations for the battle, they finished most of their conversations with an argument. She did not want it that way. She wanted him to be able to protect her as much as he believed he could protect her.  


Besides, what other option did she have? Lady Brienne was as fierce as she was loyal but she could only protect her as well as she could wield her sword. One on one they were good odds but against the traitorous houses in the North, the Lannisters in the South, and the wights beyond the Wall, Lady Brienne was helpless. Jon controlled a fortress, commanded an army, and offered her the same protection. His guilelessness served as his only encumbrance. She could offer him that now. The problem was would he except it?  


Such a thought harkened Sansa back to the days she spent with Lady Margaery. Margaery had needed to marry Joffrey but she also had needed to survive within that marriage. Sansa needed Jon’s protection but she needed it to be stronger. Margaery’s mastery over a monster like Joffrey led Sansa to believe she could employ the same persuasion over Jon, with subtlety and without damaging his confidence.  


She rose spryly, bringing the diaries with her. Winterfell still recovered from the Bolton reign. Ramsey had flayed what remained of the Starks’ loyal servants directly before the Battle. If Sansa wanted to speak with Jon, she would have to summon him herself.  


The King in the North sat quietly in his chamber, slowly whetting Longclaw. Ghost rested at his feet. Sansa’s knock came just as he was about to retire.  
“Come in.”  


His sister entered the room wearing a mischievous grin. She bowed teasingly, “Your Grace.”  


“Stop it.”  


“How else am I to pay my respects to the King in the North?”  


“By stop calling me it.” Jon continued to sharpen his sword. He was somewhat sore from her teasing. He could no longer tell when she was in earnest or when she was exercising her newly developed cunning.  


Sansa knelt down to pet Ghost.  


“I still miss Lady,” she said.  


“What happened to her?”  


“Father killed her.”  


“Lady? Father?”  


“Arya’s direwolf attacked Joffrey after he had threatened her with his sword. Cersei wanted Nymeria’s head but they couldn’t find her. Arya had sent her away. Cersei ordered Lady to be killed in her stead.”  


“I’m sorry, Sansa.” Jon touched her hand. “She was a good wolf.”  


“It was better that it happened that way.” Her eyes glowed reminiscently. “I like to think that Nymeria is still out there and she found Arya. Lady Brienne said she saw Arya in the Riverlands and that’s where we were when Nymeria fled. It wouldn’t be too farfetched to believe they reunited, wreaking havoc across the seven kingdoms.”  


“That would be Arya’s way,” Jon laughed.  


He had placed Longclaw aside and joined Sansa on the floor with Ghost.  


“What brings you in here, Sansa?”  


“Well,” She said as she flipped absently through a diary. “I was going to read you excerpts from my old diary. But, I think there are more important things to discuss.”  


“I agree.” He shut his eyes and shook his head in embarrassment. “I mean, I agree that there are important things to discuss but not that they are more important than your diaries.” And to add to his awkwardness, he added, “Diaries are important, Sansa. They show us how much we have grown.”  


She indulged him with a smile. Somehow, despite being years younger, she felt older than him. It shouldn’t be, she thought. He had been through just as much as her, perhaps even more. Yes, she had been raped by her husband but he had been murdered by his brothers. He had fought the wildlings, the white walkers. Everything she had been through mentally, he had been through physically. What was it then? She wondered if he had ever known a woman. Theon once announced for everyone to hear that Jon Snow would never fuck a whore. If he wouldn’t sleep with a whore, and if there were no women at the wall, Jon must still be a virgin. The thought heartened her. She only knew of deviant men. Even Tyrion Lannister, her only kind suitor, was known to be somewhat perverted in his sexual preferences. After Ramsay she imagined she’d never again go to bed with a man…but if there was one like Jon, clumsy and gentle, probably apologetic every time he touched her, she might reconsider.  


“Well?” Jon said.  


Sansa sat up straight but she looked away from Jon. Her tone was slow, calculated. “Now that you’re King in the North, you’re going to need a Queen.”  


Jon shot a glance at his half-sister. He couldn’t read her face but it sounded like…  


“There are whispers that Daenerys Targaryen is on her way to conquer Westeros. She too is in need of a proper marriage.”  


Jon sighed with relief. “If that’s true and she does defeat the Lannisters, she would be queen of the seven kingdoms, protector of the realm.”  


“Yes, she would.”  


“She wouldn’t want to marry a bastard.”  


“No. But she might want to marry the King in the North.”  


Jon thought about this for a few moments, long enough for Sansa to believe he was seriously considering it.  


“Do you think she’ll let me ride one of her dragons?” Jon gave her one of his rare smiles. Sansa tried to suppress her own.  


“Stop it, Jon! I’m trying to be serious,” she nudged him playfully.  


“What do you want me to say?”  


“I don’t know.” She turned her head, feigning indifference. She stood up and walked to the window. The topic required courage. She thought her feet would give it to her. She was wrong. Her knees began to quake.  


“Sansa?”  


Jon waited. She came back. She looked at his hand on Ghost, then his eyes, and down to his hand again. She crawled hers into his.  


“I want to stay here in Winterfell.”  


“You can, Sansa. I promise you that.”  


“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”  


Jon moved away from her, severing the warm bond between their hands. Sansa watched it slip through her fingers.  


“How are we supposed to trust each other if you don’t believe I can protect you?” Jon thundered. His arms pleaded to her. “You mean everything in this world to me, Sansa. I would die a thousand deaths to insure your safety.”  


“Then prove it.” Sansa rose to meet Jon eye to eye. “Marry me.”  


Jon laughed.  


“I’m not joking.”  


He was visibly uncomfortable. She began to elaborate on her suggestion when he stopped her. “Don’t say it again, Sansa.”  


“Why not?”  


“What would Father say?”  


“He’s dead, Jon. Everybody is dead. We need to keep Stark blood strong.”  


“No, Sansa. We can’t.”  


“Did you think the Knights of the Vale came without a price? Little Finger wants to marry me. He’ll all but demand it soon. What am I to do?”  


“You can say no.”  


“And you think that’s without repercussions? Truly, Jon, do you? You’re a fool if you think so. It only proves that you can’t protect me. You don’t know how.”  


“It’s not right, Sansa! You’re my sister!”  


“Half-sister. Little Finger reminds me of that every chance he gets. The Targaryens always married their sisters.”  


“Aye! And they’re all half mad.”  


“I’m not asking you to go to bed with me, Jon. This is how you protect me, how we protect each other. The longer I put Little Finger off the more time he has time to devise a plan to divide us. Jon, please. Consider it.”  


“Okay, Sansa.” He said gently. “You should get some sleep. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”  


“You’ll think about it?”  


“As much as I can stomach.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tries to appease both Sansa and Little Finger while eschewing her proposal but fails miserably.

A heavy snow blanketed Winterfell, casting an eerie silence throughout its halls. Sansa lay supine on her bed, her fingers caressing her hairline absently. She listened to the footsteps outside of the door. They belonged to Little Finger; she had no doubt of it. Life in King’s Landing, and then again during her time as Lady Bolton, forced her to acquire an ear for such sounds. Some gaits were easier to distinguish than others. For instance, a member of the King’s guard clanked louder than a soldier in the Lannister army. Sansa prided herself on recognizing the subtle differences between Cersei’s subdued stomp and Margaery’s graceful sashay, her ears even went so far as to distinguish the steps of the different handmaidens flittering around, collecting detrimental gossip for their ladies. Little Finger thought he was being discreet. It was the third time he had passed her door that morning. What did he want now?  
  
A trunk of Lady Catelyn’s clothes sat at the foot of Sansa’s bed. Sansa had plans for them. The sweet taste of torture lingered in her mouth. She knew she would never be able to replicate the feeling of feeding Ramsay to his hounds but, she could adopt a more understated approach. Unlocking the trunk, Sansa removed one of her mother’s dresses. She held it to her chest as she looked in the mirror – a bit small but nothing a needle could not fix. A hairpin lay at her bedside, she placed it in her mouth as she began weaving her hair the way the ladies in the Riverlands wear it. Looking at herself, she began to laugh. It was perfect. She looked like a replica of her mother. It gave her pleasure to hold this power over Petyr Baelish, knowing that his desire for her would never be satiated. He would never tousle her hair in a fit of passion nor would he ever slip off her gown in a moment of intimacy. The fool told her his weakness and his weakness was her! If she had not expected to meet with Jon within the hour, she would have kept her hair in place and attended to the furtive footsteps outside her door.  
  
As she placed the dresses back in place, another set of footfalls stopped short of her door. Sansa did not recognize these steps but they did not worry her; they sounded both anxious and timid. A meek knock soon followed.  
  
“Come in.” ordered Sansa.  
  
The boy entered the room timorously. Sansa looked him over and knew instantly that he must be one of Jon’s new squires. It was just like him to choose someone out of sympathy rather than merit.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“The King in the North requests your presence in the Great Hall.”  
  
“The Great Hall? Are you sure?” Such a formality did not bode well for her proposition.  
  
“Yes…I think so…” The boy stammered, questioning himself. Sansa did not have the patience for it.  
  
“Do you think or do you know?”  
  
“Yes, that is where he is.”  
  
“The King in the North is not a ‘he’, The King in the North is the King in the North and you will refer to him as ‘your Grace.’”  
  
“Yes, your Grace…I mean, yes, my lady.”

Lady Stark left her chambers with apprehension. She was not prepared to be rebuffed by Jon. Twelve hours ago she had left the same door with no intention of suggesting a marriage to her brother but, after a restless night, she had convinced herself that this was their only option. What if he demanded her to never speak of it again? What power did she have to argue with him? As she traveled toward the Great Hall, she could hardly breathe. She stopped at a window, hoping to a catch a glimpse of her own reflection.  
  
“Sansa,”  
  
Embarrassed by her own vanity, Sansa spun around quickly. It was Little Finger.  
  
“Have you heard the good news?” He asked, stepping toward her.  
  
“I don’t believe in good news anymore, Lord Baelish.”  
  
“The King in the North has appointed me to his small council.”  
  
So this was Jon’s answer to her proposal? Sansa failed to mask her anger. She glowered at Little Finger from under her brow- although; it was not certain whether all of her resentment was intended him.  
  
“What?” He stepped even closer. “Hadn’t he informed you of this in his chamber room last night?”  
  
She turned away in a marked effort to escape the conversation.  
  
“Don’t let that deter you, Sansa” He called after her. “I hear your brother is partial to red heads. I don’t doubt you will have trouble winning his confidences in time.”  
  
“My brother?” Sansa said in profile. “I thought he was only my half-brother?”  
  
“He’s whatever you want him to be, Sansa.”  
  
This caused her to turn back completely. Had he heard their conversation last night? Was it possible? She moved toward him, finding renewed poise with each step.  
  
“Tell me, Lord Baelish, does your back ache?”  
  
“No?” He replied, curious.  
  
“Funny. I would think spending an hour bent over a keyhole would give you a definite ache at your age.”  
  
Lord Baelish conceded with an amused bow. Sansa sauntered away, leaving him tinged with both pride and frustration. The interaction rejuvenated her confidence. Jon needed someone by his side that could go head to head with Little Finger; it had to be her. 

Jon tried to look stoic as he stared out the window. He expected Sansa at any moment and he did not want her to catch him ill at ease. The snow kept falling. There was a chance it would never stop. Jon smiled to himself. That would solve several of his problems. Sansa’s entrance jolted him out of his daydreaming. He shuddered at her hostile countenance, avoiding her glare like a naughty child.  
  
“Have a seat, Sansa.”  
  
As the King in the North took his seat at the center of the table, Sansa settled herself four seats left of center. Their tableau looked ridiculous.  
  
“What are you doing?” He asked, perplexed.  
  
“This is where you want me isn’t it, Jon? After the Onion Knight, a ten year old girl, and your pet Wildling? Or shall I move down one more to make room for Lord Baelish?”  
  
“Sansa, I…”  
  
“Do you think that’s a clever solution to your problem? An appointment to your small council is not a reward, Jon. It was expected. If anything, his acceptance is a gift you. His advisement is invaluable.”  
  
“A gift to me?” Jon raised his voice. “From a man you said cannot be trusted?”  
  
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know more than you do. He is the smartest man is Westeros. His intelligence is more dangerous than any army in the seven kingdoms and he is sleeping under our roof.” Sansa strayed away from the point she wanted to make in order to bring Jon back into her confidence. “Somehow he knew I visited your chamber last night.”  
  
Jon hung his head low. “That’s probably my fault.”  
  
“What? How?”  
  
“After you left, I summoned for some ale.”  
  
“And you didn’t think that I might have wanted some?”  
  
In that moment, their hostility dissipated. They shared a smile.  
  
“Could you use some now?” Jon asked.  
  
Sansa picked up a cup and watched Jon pour. They sat down at the table together in a more casual manner.  
  
“This is loads better than that shit you brew at the Wall,” Sansa remarked.  
  
“Sansa!”  
  
“Well, it is.”  
  
“It better be. We pay someone to make it here.” Jon sipped his and sighed with delight. “After all that time you spent at King’s Landing, I thought you might have developed a taste for wine.”  
  
“I’d rather choke on my own vomit than sip the same drink as Cersei Lannister.”  
  
Jon spluttered over his ale, laughing.  
  
“What?” asked Sansa.  
  
“Nothing. It’s… well, you’ve changed a lot since I last saw you at Winterfell.”  
  
“I know I’m spiteful and horrible now.”  
  
“No. You’re not that. You’re funny now.”  
  
“Funny? You think so?”  
  
“Well, you were never prone to humor as a child.”  
  
“Neither were you!”  
  
“Isn’t that depressing? We had to endure the worst things life has to offer to find the humor in it.”  
  
Sansa sipped her ale. Her eyes signaled to Jon that the course of the conversation had shifted. He swallowed his swill and waited.  
  
Sansa placed her mug down next to his hand. Jon watched her slip her hand into his. He jerked up from his seat. It was not her soft touch that repelled him but his own desire for it. The several lonely mugs of ale he drank the previous night opened his mind to a union with Sansa. The more he drank, the more pragmatic the honorable voice of Ned Stark became, and Jon, in his inebriated state, convinced himself it might be what his father would have wanted.  
  
But then morning came, reality set in, and Jon had to live with the shame of wanting to kiss his sister.  
  
“Sit down, Jon. We have to talk about this reasonably.”  
  
He moved around like a petulant little boy.  
  
“Do you think I haven’t tried to think of something else?” Sansa continued. “Do you know how many times I have dreamed of killing Little Finger? How many different ways? But each outcome is the same and it comes with a consequence we cannot afford.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant, Sansa.”  
  
Sansa reached out for Jon again but before she could clasp her hand to his, a thunderous knock broached the Great Hall. They both turned with alarm. It refused to be answered. Instead, the door opened and Maester Wolkan hurried in.  
  
“Your Grace.” He bowed, handing a letter to the King in the North. “A raven arrived from Castle Black. It bears a Stark Sigil."   



	3. Chapter 3

The beads of sweat that gathered on Maester Wolkan’s forehead disgusted Sansa. What caused him to perspire like a fat sow? The hot springs were barely eking out a comfortable temperature in the Great Keep, and not at all here in the Great Hall. Sansa eyed him suspiciously as he handed the message to Jon. Jon, fearing bad news, was hesitant to take it.  
  
Seizing the opportunity, Sansa snatched it from Maester Wolkan’s flaccid hand. She broke the seal as if she had every right to do it.  
  
“Pardons, my Lady. That letter belongs-”  
  
“Get out.”  
  
Her order shocked Wolkan. He appealed to Jon for support but received nothing more than a contrite glance for Sansa’s manners. With a slight nod of the head, Jon dismissed the maester.  
  
“You make things harder for the servants the longer you wait,” said Sansa.  
  
“Wait for what?”  
  
“To name me Your Queen.”  
  
“Sansa, even if you were Queen you wouldn’t be able to snatch letters out of people’s hands.”  
  
“You didn’t see Cersei Lannister tear up King Robert’s proclamation.”  
  
“Neither did you.”  
  
“I heard about it.”  
  
Jon’s chin hung over Sansa’s shoulder. She could smell is hair. It smelled like he had spent the night using Ghost as a pillow. Drunk Jon finding comfort where he could find it, the thought heartened her. She wanted to caress the scar marring his left eye and forget about this letter.  
  
“What does it say? Is Uncle Benjen alive?”  
Sansa handed it to him with indifference. If it was possible for her to yawn, she would have. Her demeanor could not have been more apathetic. Jon seized it with two hands. He saw the signature at the bottom and smacked the page with the back of his hand. “Why, it’s from Bran! Bran, Sansa! He’s alive! Did you see that!?”  
  
“I read it.”  
  
“Does that mean anything to you? Bran, our brother?”  
  
“How do you suppose a raven made it here during this storm?”  
  
“It’s a Castle Black raven, Sansa. They have seen thicker snows than this.”  
  
“Perhaps.”  
  
“Can’t you believe in anything anymore? This is Bran, Sansa! He's the true Lord of Winterfell and He's asking for our help. I'm going to ride North at once. I don't know why he wants to go to the Neck but-"  
  
"You will do no such thing."  
  
"Sansa-"  
  
"You will call a council meeting and you will read it to your advisors. I am interested in what some of them will have to say about it."  
  
"You mean Little Finger."  
  
“We shall see.”  
  
Jon obeyed his sister. Ramsay played his tricks from the grave. Jon thought about the mistakes he made with Rickon and wondered if it could be possible that someone else would bait him with his other brother. Sansa seemed to think so. Her doubt had invaded his heart like a disease. Was this another lure to get him out of Winterfell? Was Bran truly alive? Or worse, a captive of one of his enemies? 

He watched his council filter in. They chose their seats with remarkable self-awareness. Even Lord Baelish knew his place was furthest from the King. As they sat, Jon rose and leaned over the table.  
  
"I've brought you in here today because I have just received a letter from Castle Black. It is from my brother, Brandon Stark, the true lord of Winterfell. Jon expected a visible reaction from Little Finger and he made no attempt to hide his desire for it. Sansa noticed his repeated glances in Lord Baelish’s direction and she stepped on his foot from under the table. He looked down at her. Her blue eyes showed fire. She mouthed the words ‘stop it.’  
  
"I won’t bore you with his initial sentiment but I will read to you what he needs from us:  
_Jon, there are many things I have to tell you, but they are things that cannot be understood from mere words on a page. I know things now that I never would have known if I had not made it beyond the wall, and there is a certain thing that you would not believe if I told you. But You need to know it, Jon. The seven kingdoms need to know it. I have been traveling with Meera Reed, the daughter of father’s friend, Howland Reed. It is imperative that she returns to Greywater Watch and that I go with her. I do not intend to claim my title as Lord of Winterfell but I do claim you as my kin and I ask you to send me a few good men to escort us to the Neck. I know that this is much to ask in these uncertain times. ___  
  
It closes with more sentiment,” Jon said as he scrolled up the letter.  
  
“This raven arrived today, Your Grace?” asked Ser Davos.  
  
“As far as we know.”  
  
“And what do you want from us, Your Grace?” inquired Lord Baelish.  
  
“Your council,” said Sansa flatly.  
  
“Are we to understand that you want us to choose the men to send to your brother?” asked Lady Mormont.  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“The King means, the men that will accompany him on his journey,” Sansa added.  
  
Jon looked at her, his eyes shaped like a question mark.  
  
“Accompany?” Davos did not hide his displeasure. “This is not a journey for Your Grace to make.”  
  
“I agree,” said Tormund. “I’ll go. I’ll bring my best men.”  
  
Lady Mormont nodded in consensus.  
  
“My opinion strays, I’m afraid,” said Little Finger. “What does it say to the Northern houses that the King can’t be bothered to see to the safety of his own brother, a cripple and the true Lord of Winterfell?”  
  
Again Sansa stepped on Jon’s foot.  
  
“I agree with you, Lord Baelish. I must go.”  
  
Neither Davos nor Tormund nor Lady Mormont spoke a contrasting word. They knew Jon’s obstinate resolve and they knew it was futile to argue with him. It was Jon’s turn to step on Sansa’s foot.  
  
“It is true that my brother Bran is the Lord of Winterfell but it is truer still that my brother Jon is King in the North. Kings do not make errands. Kings command others to make errands. You have asked for our council and I am giving you mine. It would be a mistake for you to make this journey. Your place is here leading the North, not out there leading a band of a ‘few good men.’”  
  
“You make a good point, Lady Stark,” Lord Baelish countered. “Let me send the best knights the Vale has to offer.”  
  
“Save your knights for a rainier day, Lord Baelish. Jon, I suggest you send Tormund and Lady Brienne. They shall choose their own squadron.”  
  
It was settled. Tormund accepted the assignment with pleasure while Lady Brienne accepted the assignment with reluctance, agreeing only after Sansa recited several long monologues regarding duty and honor. They would leave the next morning at daybreak.


	4. Shared Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This kind of seems out of nowhere from the other chapters but it is going somewhere, I promise. I wanted to give Sansa some nuance that she so obviously lacked this passed season on GoT. She comes to terms with the scars Ramsay has given her from an unlikely source....and by the end of the chapter accidentally shows them to someone else...

              It had been two weeks since the Starks had recaptured Winterfell. And Sansa was still in dire need of a new wardrobe. A thousand and one tasks vied for her attention, leaving her with little time to sew her own clothes. Against her better judgment, she allowed a group of old seamstresses to design a few of her dresses. She ordered that they be done before Jon held his meeting in the great hall. 

               The seamstress presented her work to Sansa delicately and not without a display of pride. She laid the dress on her lap as if it were a new born infant.

               Sansa could not mask her displeasure. The color was wrong. The material was wrong. She had given the woman detailed instructions on what she wanted. Dark, dark, dark, and heavy.

               “No,” Sansa sighed, handing the dress back to the woman. “I said dark.”

               “But it’s gray, m’lady.”

               “Since when has gray ever been considered a dark color?”

               The woman made a motion to answer but, Sansa waved her off. “Never mind, I’ll have it dyed myself.”

               “But dye will ruin the material.”

               “Leave it here,” Sansa ordered. “I should have done it myself.”

               “I’m sorry, m’lady. I could have something else for you by tomorrow. I’d have to work all night and perhaps enlist the help of a few others but it could be done…”

               Sansa did not pay attention to the woman’s entreaties; she was too busy analyzing the cloth. It felt strange in her hands, the stitches were different, a detail she had overlooked when she had held it initially. She inspected the stitches closely. They weren’t just different; they were new, something she had never seen before. They were beautifully ornate, seamlessly intertwined, wholly original.

               “This is not your work.” Sansa looked the woman in the eye.

               “It is not, m’lady.”

               “Whose work is it?”

               “One of Ramsay Bolton’s wenches. I was pressed for ti-”

               “I’m not interested in your excuses,but I _am_ interested in this girl. Bring her to me.”

               “I can’t, m’lady.”

               “Why not?”

               “She won’t come out of her cell.”

               “Well, then, take me to her cell.”

 

               The sight of that particular mason archway petrified Sansa to her bones. Shecould not move another step.

               “It’s this way, m’lady,” the woman said, ushering her along.

               “No. Jon-” she corrected herself, “-the King had decommissioned these cells. They were never to be used for imprisonment again.”

               A fat, gnarled-looking guard stepped forward. Sansa flinched and moved a full foot back when he bowed to her. His menacing face, the scruffy beard, the missing teeth, the double chin reminded her of a Bolton soldier.

               “M’lady,” the ugly guard interposed, “What you say is true but these people aren’t prisoners. They are former servants of House Bolton and they refuse to leave their cells.”

               “Why?” asked Sansa.

               “They do not believe in the death of Ramsay Bolton. They fear it’s a trick.” The guard sneered at the notion. He did not hide his disdain for the subjects he had been assigned to protect.

               Sansa looked back up at the archway. It was always the last sight she saw before Ramsay dragged her into the darkness.

The first time he brought her down to the cell he did not need to drag her. He had told her his men had found a direwolf and he wanted her to have a look at it, to see if it had once belonged to one of her siblings. The thought of seeing Nymeria or Summer or Shaggydog filled her with more hope than her heart could contain. No matter which dog it was, she knew that it would protect her. For the first time in a long time the smile that crossed her lips was genuine and worst of all, hopeful.

               Ramsay led her by the hand to the fourth cell in the row. There was no direwolf.  He watched her gaze at the empty cell, his grin never fading from his face. It was the last thing she saw before he extinguished his torch. As soon as the light dimmed, Ramsay punched her in the gut and ripped off her clothes. Entirely nude, he locked her in the pitch black cell with not even a straw of hay to keep warm.

When he returned hours later, Sansa did not know if it was night or day. He carried no torch with him. The cell was so dark it hurt her eyes to open them. She tried to see Ramsay but she could only feel him. Feel him rape her on the cold, hard ground and again against the cold, hard wall. Feel him brutalize her with a blow to her face, a kick to her shins, a knee in her stomach. When he finished he took out his knife and carved the Bolton sigil onto her chest. Each time he took her to the cell thereafter he carved something knew onto her body. He had saved the worst for last.

               “I’m here to see a girl named Myra,” Sansa said, her voice failing her. “Please have her brought out to me.”

               “I’m afraid not, m’lady,” the guard said. “The King gave us orders. We must never ever move them against their will. We must never ever do anything at all ever to further ‘traumatize’ them.”

               For a moment Sansa ignored his mocking tone and thought of Jon. Only Jon would allow a bunch of commoners work out their fears at his own expense. And he allowed it with her in mind. She had told Jon only the bare minimum of her experiences yet, he seemed to understand it acutely. Someone must have told him that Ramsay used to keep her in there and because of that, he decreed that the cells would never be used for imprisonment again. When she had heard this, she retreated to her chamber and cried. She cried for a variety of reasons but mainly she cried for Jon’s thoughtfulness of her, and the thoughtlessness she had so often given him.

               “What is your name?” She asked the guard.

               “Derren, m’lady” he replied.

               “Derren,” she repeated absently as she looked down at Myra’s beautiful stitches. “I don’t think you could have survived one-tenth of what the people in there survived. What do you think of that, Derren?”

               “I’d be inclined to disagree with you, m’lady. I’m-”

               “And I’d be inclined to flay you alive. Take me to Myra’s cell before I have King Jon give you a lashing for your insolence.”

               As they crossed the archway Sansa expected to be hit with total darkness and an accelerated heart rate. Neither occurred. This was no longer the place of her nightmares. Torches illuminated the cells, fresh hay lined the floors, and each occupant had their own bed, blanket, and chamber pot. Sansa breathed easier. She followed the guard with a surer foot.

               “Lady Stark here to see you,” the ugly guard barked.

Sansa watched him clank away, muttering to himself. The cells were not locked but the guard had not bothered to push open the cell door for Sansa. She pulled it open herself and just as she did so the girl scurried into the corner, frightened beyond her wits. She remained there, cowering in fear as Sansa entered the cell. As Sansa moved closer the girl’s eyes flashed open in recognition.

               “You’re Lady Bolton,” Myra gasped. She dropped to her knees and extended her arms in mercy. “Please tell Lord Bolton I’ve been loyal! I knew he wasn’t dead! Tell him I’ve been here waiting for him this whole time, please, oh please!”

               The girl was not more than four and ten. Despite her matted hair and her dirty, heavily scarred face, Myra maintained a semblance of her former attractiveness. Her gray eyes were strikingly beautiful. They possessed a vibrancy and gentleness that cannot usually withstand such mutilation of the body and soul. Sansa’s face soured at the thought of the seamstress calling her a wench.

               “I would tell him, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

               “Why not?” Her lips quivered; she feared this was the start of another game.

               “Because Ramsay Bolton is dead. And I am the one who killed him.”

               Myra smothered her face into her hands and began rocking back and forth. Her breaths became sharper and more alarming.

               “What is it?” Sansa asked. “Aren’t you happy?”

               “Kill me! Please, just kill me! Kill me! Kill me!”

               “I am telling the truth.” Sansa voice became shrill. It embarrassed her. She lowered it to a near whisper, “I had good reason to kill him.”

               With those words, Sansa laid bare her own vulnerability. On some level Myra recognized this. She stopped rocking and waited.

               Sansa knew the meaninglessness of words. She saw so many people manipulate them to their own advantage. Why should Myra believe anything she said? In fact, she was smart not to believe any of it. Sansa wished she had had the same foresight.

               She knew what she had to do. Slowly, she reached to the back of dress. One by one, and not without handicap as she was not accustom to doing it herself, she began to unbutton her dress. Myra watched her in fearful anticipation. When Sansa had enough buttons undone, she slipped one arm and then the other out of her dress; she held the top of her dress to her chest modestly with her bare arms. They were scarred and bruised. But that wasn’t what she wanted to show her.

               Carefully, Sansa pulled down her dress to the tops of her breasts. In the center of her chest was the sigil of House Bolton, the flayed man, etched there from a dull blade belonging to Ramsay Bolton.

               “He used to hurt me too,” Sansa said.

               Myra said nothing. Her hysterics were gone. Trust showed in her eyes.

               “We’re alike you and I,” Sansa said. The girl looked at her curiously. “We’re survivors.”

               Sansa smiled and the girl smiled back.

               “Here, button me up.”

               She rushed to Sansa’s side to fasten her dress. When she finished, Sansa held out the cloth.

               “This is your work?”

               Myra nodded humbly.

               “It’s astounding. The stitch work is absolutely singular. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

               Myra said nothing.

               “How would you like to be one of my handmaidens?”

               “It wouldn’t  be proper, m’lady.”

               “Come with me.”

 

               Sansa led Myra to her chamber room. The girl stopped a yard before the door. She would not go a step farther.

               “I can’t go in. I got fleas.”

               “Stand by the fire,” ordered Sansa. “Get yourself warm.”

               Myra obeyed. From the opposite corner of the room, Sansa pushed a basin toward the fireplace.

               “I’ll help,” Myra offered, motioning toward Sansa.

               “Stay where you are and don’t say another word.”

               Pail by pail, Sansa filled up the tub with buckets of steaming hot water. When the bath was finally drawn, Sansa looked at it with pride. Even in her darkest hour she never had to draw her own bath. It gave her an odd sense of accomplishment for having done it alone. She wiped the sweat from her brow and looked at Myra. She smiled. “Are you ready?”

               “For what, m’lady?”

               “Your bath.”

               “But-”

               “Throw your clothes in the fire. There will be new ones when you are done,” said Sansa. Myra hesitated. Part of her still wondered if this was all an elaborate trick. Slowly, she slipped off the sackcloth. As it fell to her feet, it took a concerted effort on Sansa’s behalf not to audibly gasp. Her body was more mutilated than she ever could have imagined. There was not an inch of flesh untouched.

               When Myra saw the shock in Sansa’s eyes she tried to cover herself up but, even if she had the hands of a giant, she would not have been able to conceal the horror on her back. Sansa recognized it instantly. She had the same one on her own back. She felt it every time she sat down and every night when she went to sleep. It was the one scar on her body she could never truly forget, the one scar she had never actually seen. And now it was staring at her from the backside of another girl. A shiver ran up her spine.

               “Come here, sweet girl,” Sansa beckoned.

               Myra stepped into the tub cautiously. She had never had a hot bath before; she was not sure what to expect.

               “It won’t hurt you. It’s only water.”

               Once she was fully in the tub, Sansa began to wash her gently. Myra flinched when Sansa put the washcloth on her shoulder.

 “What are you doing?”

               “Giving you a bath.”

               “ I can do it myself if you’d like.”

               “I want to do it,” replied Sansa, ending the discussion.

               Silence filled the chamber. The only sound came from the water wringing from the washrag.

               “Do you want to know how I did it?” Sansa asked.

               “Did what?” Myra replied.

               “How I killed Ramsay.”

               “Yes.”

               “Do you want the long story or the short one?”

               “The long one, please,” Myra replied with childlike anticipation. She was like a little girl ready for bed and Sansa was her storyteller. Sansa relished the role. She tried to hide her own smile as she began the tale.

               “Well, it all started the day Stannis Baratheon laid siege to Winterfell. This wasn’t the first time Stannis had attacked one of the captors so I knew better than to put my hope in him. Ram-”

               “Someone held you captive too?” Myra asked in genuine wonder.

               Sansa forgot about the ignorance of the commoners. She assumed everyone knew everything about the great houses, and of the lords and ladies that filled them.

               “I was Queen Cersei’s prisoner in King’s Landing.”

               “Queen Cersei? You mean the actual Queen of Westeros?”

               “Well by then she was just the Queen Regent.”

               “What does that mean?”

               Sansa found herself narrating more and more of her own story. She meant only to tell Myra how she had fed Ramsay to his hounds but, the girl was so keenly interested that Sansa recounted everything that had happened to her since she had first left Winterfell.

               Myra wanted to know every detail. She reminded Sansa of her former self, the girl who loved tales of handsome knights and beautiful maidens, heroic lords and honorable ladies, strong kings and smart queens. And although Sansa was the protagonist of her own story, she spoke of herself in a detached, glib way. She did not speak of the despondency or of the sorrows she felt during those times. Rather, she chose to highlight her resilience and fortitude, her determination to reclaim her home at Winterfell.

By the time she reached the Battle of the Bastards, she had a very devoted admirer.

“A Giant named Wun Wun smashed open the gate and Jon came storming in. He knew he’d find Ramsay hiding behind the castle walls as the rest of his men died on the battlefield. Ramsay cocked his bow and arrow and shot at Jon three times. Each time Jon blocked the arrow. Jon knocked him to the ground and was beating him and beating him. And just as he was about to kill him, Jon looked up and saw me. Our eyes locked and he knew that Ramsay wasn’t his to kill. He hopped off of him and I ordered my men to drag him to the kennels.”

“He was still alive?”

“Yes but barely. I had my men tie him to a chair and lock him in a cell. I waited until he regained consciousness. I waited for nearly three hours. I never took my eyes off of his bloodied and battered face. It was a glorious sight. When he finally came to, I wasn’t standing outside of his cell. He said his last, meaningless words and I set his own hounds on him. They tore him to pieces. I can still remember his screams. They were music to my ears.”

Myra was very impressed, so impressed she was temporarily at a loss for words. A question, however, quickly popped into her head, she asked, “Have they written many songs about you?”

Sansa laughed heartily. “No,” she replied. But after a bit more consideration she added, “They don’t sing songs about women who can save themselves.”

 

After the bath, Sansa called in one of her handmaidens to find new quarters for Myra. Although she enjoyed the company of the girl, Sansa was in desperate need of solitude.

Finally alone, she shed off her soiled clothes and cast them into the fire; they weren’t worth the risk of lice and fleas. A robe hung from her bed post and she slipped it on. She looked at her bed longingly. Nothing appealed to her more than falling into it and sleeping her cares away. But she couldn’t do it. She was the Lady of Winterfell and it was the middle of the day.

Sighing, she moved to her wardrobe to select another outfit. She examined one dress after another absently. A nagging thought pestered her; she kept  picturing the scar on Myra’s back. It was brutal and ugly and Sansa could not stop thinking about the one on her own back. Did it look like Myra’s? Was it exactly the same? How did it differ? She had planned to never ever look at it. She did not want to give Ramsay that satisfaction.

But now it bothered her. She had an idea of what it looked like and now she had to know if it matched the image in her head. The mirror was a few steps away from her. It was the clearest mirror in Winterfell. Her robe was light, easy to slip off, easy to slip on. She only had to take a peek. It would only take a second, one glance over her shoulder and she would have an idea.

Sansa positioned her back in front of the mirror. Looking over her shoulder, she gazed at herself. She held her robe at the lapels, ready to shed it when she gave herself the go ahead. Her heart pounded. As long as she did not see it, she was not grotesque but the second she saw it, she could never unsee it. It could change her perception of herself forever.

She dropped her robe but closed her eyes. The robe lay at her feet; she was completely naked. At the count of three she would turn her head and look. One…Two…

There was a knock at the door. Her heart sank. Panic set in. Sansa hurried to find her robe. Her arms swung wildly as she reached down to grab it. As she brought it back up, the robe brushed against a vase, sending it crashing to the ground. The violent sound prompter her visitor to enter uninvited. He swung open the door and froze in the doorway.

“Jon!” she exclaimed.


End file.
